


Broken

by Zrofyre



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Introspection, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zrofyre/pseuds/Zrofyre
Summary: "He bows before her as a knight would. He is no knight. He is the headsman."The broken thoughts in Rey's mind.





	Broken

The darkness is quiet as the cold seeps into her bones.  They were in similar locale previously. Or not so . . . Starkiller Base, her bones quake with the memories.  

 

Everything is different now.  Her perception of him. Her understanding of herself.  His feelings for her. Or maybe they’re not so different.

 

She doesn’t delude herself.  She knows exactly who and what he is.  This false belief that he could shrug off years of darkness to embrace the light . . . madness.  She can contain herself to hoping for a modicum of gray. A balance to him that leaves the rage and pain and fear tempered at least a bit.

 

He is kneeling before her now, as if she were some grandiose queen.  His attire still all black. It will never be anything other than. The cloak he wears spreads across the snow as if great wings drape from his back.  He bows before her as a knight would. He is no knight. He is the headsman. 

 

She is no queen.  No angel. No savior.  She might be the knight.  If so shiny an idea could be grubbed about as she is.  Dirtied and uncaring, enduring and ending. 

 

Her grays are drifting in the frigid winds, fluttering as she imagines her own wings might.  Only if her feathers are blood tipped, for the sticky mess drips from the edges of her tattered garments.  She wears no cloak, as ill prepared for this clime as previously. 

 

But oh the inherent differences.  She has shed as much blood as he. Do not let ideals of light and dark fool you.  A war will obliterate your childlike blinders. Everyone dies in war. Everyone kills in war.  All you can hope for is scrabbling survival. 

 

A biting gust cuts through her tunic making her wounds ache and pinch with freezing blood.  It drips now not from others’ that she’d shed but her own. Her’s now coagulates into icicles as she takes supplication from her dark guardian.  

 

His hair is limp, sweat crystallizing.  Corded arms are propped on his bracing knee, holding his bowing form.  She wants nothing more than to lift him up. 

 

The shock of sound as her limping steps break the crust of snow.  They are the final survivors on this hellhole. Although survival might be a bit generous.  She is where she would only ever wish to be. 

 

With him.

 

As she kneels down to clasp his hands the pain of cold is fading.  The warmth of his nearness is enough. The clasp of his arms is everything.  The cloak feathers over them as the snow falls and the silence screams. 

**Author's Note:**

> More pic inspiration that I'm no good at sharing. Definitely all in Rey's head. Really stretching on the imagery. As unedited as ever.


End file.
